


You Can Look Back But Don’t Stare

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the field, it’s almost impossible to sneak up on Clint but here, in the safety of Stark Tower, when he’s stirring pancake batter to the beat of a drum line, Phil has the advantage.</i>
</p>
<p>[Set immediately post movie so spoilers.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Look Back But Don’t Stare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sirona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/gifts).



> For sirona who asked for domestic Clint/Phil.

Phil wakes up slowly, eyelids fluttering before deciding they’re too heavy and sinking closed again. He rolls over onto his back, stretching out the side of his body that isn’t stiff with soon-to-be-pain, and yawns.

It’s warm and bright in the bedroom and he can tell that he’s slept in without needing to check the clock. He feels automatically guilty about that even though it doesn’t matter since he’s still on medical leave.

Or, to be more accurate, he’s _back_ on medical leave. He attempted to go into work yesterday, bled all over Maria’s terminal and found himself being sent straight back home.

It was both humiliating and undignified. And he’s sure at least three of the junior agents were recording it as proof that Agent Coulson isn’t a robot.

“Good morning, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS says quietly as though allowing Phil the option of pretending to still be asleep. Phil guesses that working for Tony Stark instils that in a person. Or, in this case, an AI.

Phil opens his eyes. “Good morning, JARVIS. How are you today?” he asks, stretching again to test the pull on the stitches in his chest. They hurt but don’t pop again. Good to know.

“Very well, thank you. Mr Stark put me through a full reboot last night. Sir, Agent Barton asked me to inform him fifteen minutes before you will require breakfast. Would you estimate that to be now?”

Phil sits up slowly. The pain that flashes through his still healing chest muscles is so bright that it takes his breath away.

“Clint’s cooking?” he asks when he has air to spare again. The pain pills SHIELD’s med staff forced on him yesterday made him nauseous so he’s starving this morning.

“Indeed, sir. Pancakes, I believe.” JARVIS sounds indulgent. Clint finds all AIs creepy but Phil secretly enjoys that they live in a world where computers can sound indulgent.

“Excellent.” Phil swings his legs out of bed and scratches at the edge of his bandage. “Fifteen minutes it is.”

“Very good, sir. I will inform Agent Barton,” JARVIS says, followed by the soft click that means he’s switched to another channel.

Left alone, Phil shuffles slowly into the bathroom, forcing himself to think about things other than the pain. Daydreaming about piles and piles of Clint’s fluffy pancakes drowning in maple syrup, helps with that.

***

Phil’s not allowed to get his stitches wet so it doesn’t take him long to wash up and take the elevator down to Stark and Pepper’s kitchen.

In an uncharacteristic display of optimism, Stark is apparently building a floor for every Avenger and he insisted that Phil move into one of the already-finished guest wings while he’s recuperating. Once he found out about Phil and Clint, he basically made it a condition of his continued association with SHIELD.

Considering Phil had to break into Stark Tower the last time he needed to visit Stark, he considers this sudden friendliness a miracle on par with not dying from a magical sceptre to the heart.

There’s music playing down the corridor – something with a light guitar track that Phil probably won’t recognise until it hits the chorus – so Phil knows that Clint is right where JARVIS said he would be.

He follows the music to the kitchen and stops, bare feet missing the one tile in the doorway that he’s already learned creaks so he can lean against the doorframe and enjoy the view.

In the field, it’s almost impossible to sneak up on Clint but here, in the safety of Stark Tower, when he’s stirring pancake batter to the beat of a drum line, Phil has the advantage.

“'Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone conversation',” Clint sings and Phil has long since gotten over the surprise that Clint _can_ sing, but he still likes to hear it. “The best soy latte that you ever had and me.”

Clint slides from one end of the counter to the other, bowl in one hand while he conducts along with the song with the spoon in the other. He’s wearing socks and he skids, catching himself on one cupboard handle and managing to make it look graceful enough that it could have been deliberate.

Phil doesn’t try to hold back his laugh.

“Excellent cornering, Barton,” he says like it’s four years ago and he’s teaching Clint how to fly the predecessor to the Quinjet.

Clint spins around and grins at Phil. “Hey,” he says, waving the spoon at Phil then making a face when when batter flies everywhere and dropping it back into the bowl. “Good morning.”

“Is it still morning?” Phil asks. “I feel like I slept for a week.”

Clint looks pleased at that. He doesn’t say so, but he worries about Phil and he’s been worrying more than usual since Phil got hurt. It’s something that Phil knows he needs to work harder to remember, especially when he’s dragging himself back to work too early, sure that SHIELD will fall without him.

“JARVIS sell me out?” Clint asks, sliding closer and putting his hand on Phil’s good shoulder and squeezing. He looks hard at the sling that Phil consented to wear today but doesn’t say anything about it.

“He tempted me out of bed with sweet talk of pancakes,” Phil tells him and raises his eyebrows, hopeful and pointed all at once.

Clint laughs, stepping back to the stove. The song on the radio has switched to some classic Pink Floyd, which is much more Phil’s speed.

He waits until Clint has poured out enough batter for one pancake, the mixture hissing nicely in the pan, before stepping up behind him and putting his right hand on Clint’s right hip.

“Don’t distract me,” Clint scolds but he leans back into Phil, turning his head quickly to snatch a kiss before straightening and carefully flipping the pancake. “In fact, go sit down.”

“No, I’m fine here,” Phil tells him, hooking his chin over Clint’s shoulder and watching him work, eyes following the flick of his wrist, the way the muscles in his hand flex when he shifts the pan.

Clint’s a good cook but he hates to admit it so Phil doesn’t get to watch him cook all that often. Phil doesn’t know why yet – Clint has no trouble announcing all the other things he’s good at – but he has time, he didn’t die, so he’s confident he’ll figure it out eventually.

“You’re really bad at resting,” Clint tells him but his free hand settles over Phil’s so Phil stays where he is, breathing in the scent of pancakes mixed with the smell of Clint’s shower gel and freshly washed hair.

***

It’s essentially impossible to make food in Stark Tower without at least one person coming foraging, nose twitching like a pig sourcing truffles.

Today it’s Banner, closely followed by Stark.

“Oh,” says Banner, hanging back when he sees Phil and Clint eating at the table. “Sorry, I can, um. Go?”

Clint waves a hand over at the counter. “There’s plenty more,” he offers, pausing mid-chew. Phil’s husband is delightful. “Long as you don’t mind ‘em kinda cold.”

“We’ll take them however they come,” Stark tells him, leaning around Banner to steal the two pancakes at the bottom of the stack, the ones that should still be warmest.

Banner rolls his eyes and doesn’t look like he minds. Phil is grateful every day for whatever higher power decided those two should get on so well.

“Mind if I sit?” Stark asks, already sitting. His elbow jostles Phil’s sling and ignites pain so bad that Phil has to clutch his fork hard so he doesn’t drop it and cause a scene. “Hi, _Phil_.”

“Hi,” Phil says mildly, breathing out on the word and forcing his clenched jaw to relax. “ _Tony_.”

Stark makes a face. He finds the fact that Phil has a first name hilarious, for some reason, but he doesn’t like Phil getting familiar with him in return. Which is why Phil does it.

“How are you feeling?” Banner asks, putting a cup of coffee in front of Stark and standing behind the fourth chair, a mug in one hand and plate in the other. “You didn’t look so good yesterday.”

Yesterday had been embarrassing. Yesterday Phil had lost just enough blood to leave him dizzy and not at his best. Phil isn’t thinking about yesterday ever again.

“I’m fine,” Phil tells him with a slight smile, which is both not entirely a lie and also all the information that the team should ever need about his health.

“Of course he’s fine; he’s practically indestructible,” Stark says, patting Phil on the chest and managing, through his special Stark magic, to unerringly hit one of Phil’s slowly-healing surgery scars.

Phil doesn’t flinch but, “ _Dude_ ,” Clint says, reaching over and smacking Stark’s hand away. Phil really doesn’t need protecting from Tony Stark’s socially awkward handsy-ness but he appreciates the effort. He supposes.

“Oops,” Stark says, because being a Stark means never having to say you’re sorry. He tips his head back. “Banner, why are you lurking?”

Banner raises his eyebrows and looks from Phil to Clint and back. “Because I think we’re interrupting. Come on, Tony, we can eat in the lab.”

Phil opens his mouth automatically to say that they’re welcome to stay – Team Unity is his current motto, or it will be once he’s allowed to go back to work and introduce mottos again – but Clint puts his hand high on Phil’s thigh, backs of his fingers brushing Phil’s balls through his jeans and Phil doesn’t say a word.

Clint smiles at him, eyes soft, but he converts it into a smirk before turning it on Stark. “Yeah, Tony, don’t be a cock block, dude.”

Banner and Stark might speak the same scientific language, but Clint and Stark – distressingly – share many of the same bro codes (Clint’s term, not Phil’s), so that’s all it takes to get Stark rolling gracefully to his feet, taking his breakfast with him.

“Sure, sure, right,” he says, nodding at them both with the kind of glint in his eye that means mocking later, potentially in front of Director Fury. “Come on, Bruce, we know when we’re not wanted.”

“One of us does,” Bruce agrees pleasantly but he follows Stark out, giving Phil an apologetic eyebrow lift as he passes.

Phil smiles at him and shakes his head.

“Cock block?” Phil asks when they’re alone again. “That’s ambitious. The pancakes weren’t that good.”

Phil hasn’t felt up to sex since getting wounded and as much as he’d like to take Clint back to bed right now, he’s probably still too sore and exhausted to get up to much of anything.

“My pancakes are totally that good,” Clint tells him. He slides his hand down Phil’s thigh until he can trace Phil’s kneecap with his thumbnail. “But I figured that’d work better than ‘fuck off, I want to lick the maple syrup off Phil’s bottom lip’.”

Instinctively, Phil flicks his tongue out to check if there really is syrup on his lip, but Clint gets there first, kissing him slowly, tongue tracing his lower lip then settling in to lick the corner of Phil’s mouth, tongue just slow and wet enough to drive Phil insane.

Phil’s free hand is under Clint’s shirt, curled against his stomach by the time they break for air, but Phil isn’t absolutely sure when it got there. 

The way Clint’s holding on in return feels a little bit desperate, a tell that Phil isn’t going to call him out on.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Phil says, meaning _thank you for putting up with my inability to look after myself and still liking me enough to cook for me_.

Clint shrugs. “Building up your strength,” he says. He strokes his thumb over Phil’s hip, just tracing the front of his pants. “You’ll need it when your stitches are out.”

Phil shivers and agrees to believe that Clint’s only worrying about their sex life.

“I’m confident that there are one or two things we could do before then,” he says thoughtfully.

Clint’s eyes widen, the corner of his mouth curling up. “You should tell me about them,” he says, shifting closer. “In our room maybe?” He leans in, lips a fraction from Phil’s. He kisses him quick and then sits back, the space between them unexpected and cool. “Whenever you’ve stopping spontaneously bleeding from where you were _stabbed in the heart_ last month, Phil, for fuck’s sake.”

Phil shakes his head, amused, frustrated and grateful all at once. “At least come lie down with me?” he asks and he’s not teasing now, he wants that.

Clint sighs. “You’re so damn demanding, sir,” he grumbles, grabbing Phil’s forearm and bracing him to his feet. “Cook me food, Barton, help me nap, Barton. Next, you’ll be wanting me to iron your shirts.”

Phil snorts, leaning into Clint when Clint slides an arm around his waist, helping him to pretend that he shouldn’t have taken some pain pills with his breakfast. 

“Trust me, Agent Barton,” he says seriously, “I will never want you to iron my shirts.”

“Oh, ouch,” Clint says, shoving him in a way that somehow ends with them closer together.

They’re in a semi-public space and they don’t do random displays of affection, but Phil still takes the opportunity to kiss Clint’s jawline. He hasn’t shaved today and his pale stubble rasps against Phil’s mouth.

“Hey,” Clint says, laughing and pulling Phil a little closer. “What was that for?”

_What wasn’t it for?_ Phil thinks but doesn’t say.

Clint cooks Phil breakfast and sings along to the radio with great sincerity and he’s going to drive himself stir-crazy making sure Phil doesn’t overexert himself for the next few weeks. Until SHIELD invents a medal for that or Phil can work out how to buy him a new bow without Clint muttering about being a kept man, thoughtless kisses in the corridor are the least Phil can do to say thank you.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he says, and kisses Clint again.

/End


End file.
